


First Among Women

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Series: Our Bright, Disturbing Multiverse [4]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Destructive Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hate Sex, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amora always gets what she wants, and what she wants right now is Victor von Doom--his blood, his life, and his power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Among Women

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, Deadpool here, letting you all know that I totally heard them doing this. Amora is _loud_ , let me tell you!

He doesn't take the mask off when he's in bed with her. Amora feels that, somehow, this should probably bother her, but it really doesn't. His scarred face is not what interests her. In fact, she was initially surprised that he was willing to remove any more of the armor than was strictly necessary for the act, until she realized in a painfully rare flash of insight that he didn't really need it. The armor wasn't what he required to be himself—all he needs is the mask and he can still be Doom. He never has to be Victor. There are more reasons, this she knows, but the persona is what rules him, and learning what rules a man has always been Amora's greatest skill.

Apart from that, if she was looking for a specimen of male beauty, she could do far better than Victor von Doom. What she wants from him is not beauty but power, and that is something he has an excess of. Were she a baser creature she would want to kill him and suck the puissance from his bones, but she is not base. She is a woman, the first among women, and she uses the weapons she was born with.

In truth, it was his very indifference to her charms that first inflamed her. Most men twist themselves into knots for a single smile from her, and dissolve into puddles of want at her pursuit, but Doom barely noticed she was there. No other man, save her beloved Thor, had ever made her feel unwanted, and so for his disregard she wanted him, for his disrespect she would have him. She wanted, badly, to take him apart and see what made him the man he was, and then to put him back together, that man again, but hers to command. What is she, what are all her charms, if she cannot make this metal king desire her?

When he finally succumbed and woke her late in the night knocking on her chamber door she had almost risked a sigh of relief. Even then, though, as she answered the door in winning disarray and drew him to her bedside, he had seemed indifferent, but he had come. He had given in. That surrender— _that_ was all that mattered.

The presence of the mask did present a few problems, of course, in that it precluded the possibility of a kiss, or of certain other pleasures she enjoyed, but those she could find elsewhere. He was not a demanding lover, which surprised her; he let her take the lead, and she got the sense that he hadn't been with many other women, if any at all. Perhaps one before her, and wasn't that a delight to know? Equally surprising, and more frustrating, was his silence—Doom was not a talkative man at the best of times, but she had thought he would speak a little past his initial greeting.

Succubus, some had called her. Seductress. Witch, wanton, bloodsucker, eater of men. She has always preferred to be an enchantress, because is she not enchanting? As she pushed him back against the pillows she could feel the power in his heart calling to her, quickening as she climbed atop him and his hands gripped her hips. He had come to her, he had been taken into her bed, and so his power could be hers. That was the way, the oldest way between men and women, and she, she was first among women.

Even as he moved in her he remained somehow unmoved, and now that she had him truly in her grasp that was intolerable. She could not see his face behind his impassive mask and so she _would_ have his voice, though it took all her arts. She would draw his pleasure from him like poison from a wound, would then stop it at the brink if that was what it would take to make him say her name.

She regretted, briefly, that she had moved so quickly to the main event; it was easier to unravel a man with tongue than with true lovemaking (for she loved him, yes, she loved all her conquests in the moments of their undoing, that was the secret of her art). For a moment she considered pulling away to frustrate him, but his hands held her too tightly, and so instead she began to speak. She told him how she found him fascinating, how she desired him, she scored his chest with her fingernails and whispered to him of the things she would have him do to her, she lapped at his throat and worked with word and certain muscles to rip him open and make him speak.

It was working, too; she could feel it. The air fulminated with the magic that rose from their coupling and she drank of it greedily, tapping it to refill her own mystic reserves (they could not be filled any other way, that was the other secret of her art, the one more closely kept). She would have bruises later from his hands, but she did not care, she was quaking as magic poured into her and filled her. Her speech became more frenzied, more frantic, and his movements too were rougher, and as she reached her pinnacle and drew him quick to his, finally he spoke.

And he did not say her name.

“Valeria...”

It took a moment to register that he had spoken a name not hers, still occupied as she was with her own completion, but when her vision cleared and she realized what had happened she was filled with sudden fury. She had _seen_ the woman, too, just a flash in her mind's eye but still visible, a fine face but nowhere near as fine as hers. But rage was not a thing for the bedchamber, so she simply breathed deeply as she pulled away and settled down beside him and said, sweetly, “Who is Valeria?”

He did not reply immediately, choosing instead to wrap an arm around her shoulders in a grip that she could feel hovering on the edge of truly astounding violence. A huff of echoing breath, and, “ _All_ your power truly descends from this paltry act?”

So there it was, and they lay together in silence, each knowing what the other one would not have them know, and Amora felt the fingers of rage curl tight around her heart even as she leaned her head against his shoulder in a parody of tenderness. This would not be borne.

For only _she_ could be first among women.


End file.
